


I'll Be Your Icarus

by EndlessNepenthe



Series: We're Both a Little Broken, But Together We'll Fill In The Cracks [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (oops maybe I like the idea of Steve being punched a little too much), Adorable Peter Parker, Adorable Tony Stark, Angst and Feels, BAMF FRIDAY, BAMF Peter Parker, BAMF Tony Stark, Clingy Peter Parker, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, MIT Tony is the most adorable thing you can't change my mind, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Peter punches Steve, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Precious Tony Stark, Protective FRIDAY, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sassy FRIDAY, Sleepy Peter Parker, Soft Peter Parker, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark is bad at feelings, Tony finally confronts Steve about the letter, Tony is trying but Steve is not, Tony punches Steve, brilliant Peter Parker, just a lot of Peter and Tony protecting each other, plz Tony doesn't deserve all the shit that happens to him, seriously please someone wrap Tony Stark in a fluffy blanket and protect him from the world, soft tony stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-11-08 05:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndlessNepenthe/pseuds/EndlessNepenthe
Summary: After those that had been on Captain America’s side have been pardoned at Tony Stark’s multiple requests and pleas (backed with facts the government couldn’t argue against), they separate, deciding to remain out of the public eye for a while. Clint returns to his quiet farm in the countryside, Vision and Wanda disappear together, and Scott Lang returns to his own home. What was once their safe house had been compromised, so Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, and Sam Wilson go to the only safe place they can think of: the sleek tower that stands tall and proud in Manhattan, New York.When the subject of Tony Stark’s recurring nightmares shows up on his doorstep, he does the one thing that he’d been to determined not to do: he lets him in.See, Tony has been told that it was all his fault and that he deserved it, multiple times - so many times, that even he has started to believe it. But one very smol and extremely stubborn Peter Parker is ready to fight anyone who takes Tony Stark’s kind heart for granted, even if it’s the famous Captain America. (And especially if it’s Mr. Stark, because he doesn’t deserve anything less than rainbows and sunshine and happiness and I can’t let him make himself sad!)





	1. I Forget (My) Pain When I'm With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You okay?"
> 
> "Do I have a reason not to be?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I like creating titles with words in brackets so that there's an extra meaning. Poetic, dual meaning titles ftw

The helmet slams shut, and Tony backhands Captain America with all his strength, sending him flying. _Anger rears its head, snarling with single minded intent: Make him hurt, badly._ His target is not Rogers, but he knows Rogers can and will get in his way. Tony blasts the gun Barnes points in his direction and catches the metal fist that swings at his head with his own. Batting it aside, Tony grabs Barnes by the throat, flying up into the air to slam him against the ground with extra force. _Render his weapon useless, then dispatch._ He plants a metal boot on Barnes’ metal arm, pinning it to the concrete, and activates his left gauntlet repulsor. His aim is disrupted when Captain America’s shield hits him on the back of the head.

Tony aims with the right gauntlet - his left is wrapped around Barnes’ neck - but it’s crushed underneath the fingers of Barnes’ metal arm. _Missile._ He fires without a thought, instantly obeying the whisper in his mind. Barnes shoves his arm away, and the missile detonates at an area behind them. _Tony momentarily regrets being so angry that he tried to fire a missile point blank in someone’s face, but the anger in him rages, swallowing up the emotion, burying it under a roaring flame._ Something creaks, collapsing around them, and Tony resolves not to use any more missiles.

“It wasn’t him, Tony. HYDRA had control of his mind!” _Don’t listen to him. He knew this whole time and he never told you. He knew._ “Move!”

“Do you even remember them?” _Even if he does, that doesn’t change anything. He killed them._ “I remember all of them.”

“This isn’t going to change what happened.” _He strangled her. She never did anything to deserve that._ “I don’t care. He killed my mom.”

“He’s my friend.” _He knew, and he didn’t tell you. He was never your friend._ “So was I.”

“Stay down. Final warning.” _You trusted him? How foolish._ “I can do this all day.”

 _Your greatest mistake is trusting him, and you’ll pay for it._ The shield slams down against Tony’s helmet. Once: the metal dents, creaking. The force of the blow dazes Tony. Twice: it’s almost torn apart, no longer protecting him. A sharp edge of the helmet cuts Tony’s head. Thrice: it gives, broken pieces scattering. The shield rises up again, even higher than before. _With your life._

  
  


Tony flinched violently, squeezing his eyes shut. He sees, as clear as day, the shield being raised above Captain America's head, then speeding down towards him. In that moment, as he'd thrown his arms up to protect his exposed head, the idea of using his remaining functional gauntlet repulsor crossed his mind, flitting about like a butterfly. But at that distance, it would surely end Steve Rogers’ life. So Tony had closed his fist, his mind hissing that he was too soft and sentimental for his own good. The closer the shield got, the more Tony panicked, realizing that this mistake would surely be his last, but instead of his head, it had slammed into the arc reactor in his chest. He'd been thankful for a quick, fleeting moment, until he felt the arc reactor stutter and nearly go out.

He remembers the cold that stabbed at him like a thousand sharp needles. He remembers the helplessness as he sat in a shell of metal that had been his only salvation. He remembers the despair that gripped him like a vice whenever the blue light of the arc reactor flickered weakly. He remembers praying to gods he never believed in, desperate and alone in the desolate landscape. He remembers thinking that even though he had already accepted his death a long time ago, in a cold and dingy cave, he didn’t want to die - _Not like this. I can’t die like this._

Slowly, Tony opens his eyes, grateful that FRIDAY had removed the display. Tony had immediately taken apart and destroyed that version of the Iron Man suit once he was back in his lab, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to delete the footage that had been recorded by the suit. But he also couldn't bring himself to watch it either, so he had buried it in the depths of his private server, expecting that it would never be seen by any eyes ever again. However, the rogue Avengers (if he could even call them that) were being pardoned tomorrow, so Tony had impulsively decided to watch the video.

Leaning back, Tony stares up at the ceiling. The room is so dim it's almost completely dark, tiny pinpricks of startling white light scattered around above his head.

Tony Stark likes stars and the sky. No one really knows, but he likes to keep it to himself. Since he can't exactly risk sitting outside the tower at night to stargaze, Tony built himself a secret room the size of an Olympic swimming pool, with a domed ceiling made up of ultra HD screens of the highest quality. The floor is covered with comfortable mats that are like thin mattresses, and things associated with rest, relaxation, and comfort are distributed unevenly around the room: fluffy pillows, large beanbag chairs, cushions, and soft blankets. Some nights, when his brain is either too full or too empty to be focused on working down in the lab, Tony stays in this room, either sitting or laying down, often times even falling asleep. He loves the sky the most when it's a deep, royal blue, so dark it's nearly black, decorated with bright flecks of brilliant light like freckles.

(Tony Stark likes stars and the sky, but some days, he hates them with every particle of his being. Those days are the days he hates himself for hating what he’d liked, _loved,_ for so much of his life. But he can’t help himself; some days he looks up at the sky and the cheerful stars, and all he can see is the wormhole from New York, an endless dark abyss stretching out in front of his eyes. When it’s one of those days, Tony lets himself stop fighting and fall. He lets himself break - curling up as small as he can on the floor, shaking and shivering; panting and gasping as his heart stutters in his chest; frantically swallowing down lungfuls of air, hyperventilating, his vision blurring and head going dizzy with a lack of air - and every single time, without fail, a part of him hisses that he deserves the pain. And it _hurts,_ the sorrow and guilt and helplessness and despair and _I should have done more, I should have tried harder._ It hurts, so much that he doesn’t even have tears to shed, drowning himself in the pain. Often, he digs his blunt fingernails into his own skin, sometimes drawing blood even through his clothes, desperate for pain that is manageable and treatable. They say Tony Stark doesn’t have a heart, and yet it breaks, over and over again, without a sound.)

Somehow, the idea that the blindingly bright lights up in the sky are actually comprised of some stars that have been dead for a long time - hiding among the living ones, exactly identical and unidentifiable until their light is suddenly extinguished - gives Tony a sense of comfort. He feels small whenever he looks up at the night sky, and it’s a wonderful feeling; the problems that feel so _big,_ a constant and crippling weight on Tony’s shoulders, suddenly feel so tiny and insignificant. More often than not, Tony ends up forming ideas that bring solutions to his numerous problems, right there in that blissfully dark room. It definitely helps when the once enormous problems feel like little pebbles on the road of his life, allowing him to step back and see the whole picture, for his mind to critically analyze details he wouldn’t have seen when they were like giant boulders on his shoulders (when all he could think of was how _heavy_ they were) and see multiple possible solutions that are suddenly so glaringly obvious.

However, no matter how much he pondered and contemplated, poked and prodded, twisted and turned, his current issue doesn’t seem to have a solution. Tony cannot see a way to fix this, and it leaves him frustrated and irritable, his fingers itching to build something but not knowing what.

Even with a mind as bright as Tony’s, he has no idea how to fix what had broken in him that day, when he’d seen the shield rushing towards him. Something in him had cracked when he’d heard that quiet confession, that _Yes,_ but he had harboured a desperate hope, protected it and sheltered it against his boiling rage. It had been microscopic, barely noticeable, but it had been there all the same. Now, he recognizes what it had been, and names it _Denial._ When that shield - _his father’s creation_ \- had been wielded against him, destroying his armour, something in him had shattered, jagged pieces flying every which way like the pieces of his helmet. Tony had numbly collected the broken pieces of his armour and brought it back with him to be destroyed, but now he realizes that he’d left the pieces of himself behind in that empty wasteland.

_How do you fix something when there is nothing left to put back together?_

Tony huffs a laugh and the sound is devoid of any amusement, instead filled with bitter self deprecation and loathing.

_How fitting. The brilliant mechanic, capable of fixing anything, and the one thing he'll never be able to fix is himself._

“Boss.” The word is soft and hesitant, as if apologetic for disturbing Tony.

“What,” he replies, short and clipped.

“Peter is requesting your location.”

“Oh.” _That’s right, the kid is supposed to be here today._ Tony had been distracted the whole day, mind fixated stubbornly on _Captain America and the Winter Soldier,_ until he had given in and locked himself in this room to watch the footage. He’s glad that FRIDAY got the hidden message when he’d told the AI to keep this room off all maps of the tower in existence when he’d first built it. This is Tony’s personal refuge, the one thing that only he knew about (well, FRIDAY also knew) and no one else. “Where is he?”

“The kitchen.”

Tony hums, remembering that Peter had a monstrous appetite from his enhanced metabolism. “What’s he doing,” he asks, not too interested in the answer, but his horrible mood is improving, just a little, so he makes an effort.

“Peter is eating an apple.”

Tony’s lips curve upward against his will. _Kid’s trying to be healthy, huh._

“And drinking a juice box…”

Tony blinks. _...Why?_

“Apple flavoured,” FRIDAY concludes, amused.

Tony laughs, startling himself. Chuckling, he shakes his head with fond amusement. He enjoys calling Peter all sorts of variants of child or baby as a joke, but _the kid loves juice boxes! That’s child behaviour._ “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Yes, boss,” FRIDAY replies, warm and pleased.

Tony had created his AI to be snarky and slightly detached and oftentimes even cold, with only the smallest resemblance to JARVIS (the memory of JARVIS pains Tony, but he couldn’t resist adding some of JARVIS’ sass to his new AI. Plus - he would never admit it out loud - Tony knew, JARVIS was one of the rare few people that he actually listened to, and God, Tony definitely needs someone to keep him in check, even if it’s an AI), but it seems that it had started learning and changing. Peter’s AI, which the teenager had lovingly named Karen, had been created to be kind and compassionate, encouraging yet strict when it is warranted, all warm words and endlessly indulgent praises. Clearly, FRIDAY had been picking up a few things from Karen. Tony has yet to decide whether he liked the new warmth his AI seemed to have gained, but he can’t help being amazed and impressed that his creations were learning from each other.

Sauntering into the kitchen area of the main floor, Tony pauses when he sees only a juice box resting on the granite island, the space otherwise empty. A rather ominous crunch echoes in the silence and Tony yelps embarrassingly loud, turning his head to the source of the sound.

“Hi Mr. Stark!” Peter chirps cheerfully from the ceiling, taking another bite of his apple.

“You-- I think my heart just stopped for a hot moment. Kid, what are you doing on the ceiling?”

“I was bored.” Peter shrugs. “Can you pass me my juice?”

“No, I will not pass you your juice box,” Tony replies, crossing his arms. “Get off my ceiling, Spiderling.”

“Spider _Man,”_ Peter half-heartedly corrects with a huff, landing lightly on his toes in front of Tony. He takes the last bite of his apple, setting the core on the counter. “You okay Mr. Stark?”

Preoccupied by his thoughts, Tony absently watches as Peter drains the juice box with one long swallow, then dutifully disposes of the waste he’d produced.

“Mr. Stark?”

Startled, Tony blinks, eyes focusing on Peter, who is suddenly in front of him again. “Hm?”

“You okay?”

Tony tilts his head. “Do I have a reason not to be?”

“Something’s bothering you.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.” Peter leans into Tony's space, reaching up to press the pad of his forefinger in the area between Tony's eyebrows. “You have the _I-don’t-know-what-to-do-but-I-think-I-should-and-it’s-bothering-me_ frown.”

“...You categorize my frowns?”

Peter smiles, slow and soft and sweet, stepping back. “Let's watch a movie, Mr. Stark.”

“Explain--”

“Please?”

Tony grits his teeth in frustration. He hates not knowing something, and Peter clearly didn't want to tell Tony how he knew something was bothering the billionaire. Tony wondered if he really was so transparent, for Peter to notice his mood.

“Please, Mr. Stark?” Peter pleads, round brown eyes imploring.

“Okay, sure,” Tony finally says. He strolls to the cluster of plush sofas arranged near a giant flat screen television, nonchalantly sinking onto one. “What brought this on, kid?”

Peter sighs, flopping down right next to Tony. “Just tired from school. It's nothing, Mr. Stark.”

Tony's earlier frustration evaporates. “Tired from school,” he echoes. “That's really it?” Concern slips, unbidden, into his voice.

“Mm,” Peter hums, eyes sliding closed. He leans back, but cautiously tips a little towards Tony, just enough to be easily overlooked.

“You're not injured or anything, right?” Tony pulls Peter closer, tucking the teenager against his side.

“Right,” Peter mumbles, pressing his nose to Tony's neck.

“Pete.” Tony's tone is firm, a clear warning.

“I swear!” Peter sits up, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

 _“Don't_ lie to me,” Tony hisses.

Peter's eyes go wide with surprise. He blinks, and suddenly his hands in his lap are the most interesting things in the world. “I'm not,” he weakly insists. “Just…”

Tony's mind races as he runs back through his memories, searching for hints and clues. _Can't be legs._ Not when Peter had been sitting cross legged on the ceiling, and even leaped down from such a height. _Not arms._ Peter hadn't reacted when Tony had pulled him close, squashing one of Peter's arms between their bodies. His other arm was also clear, since it hadn't displayed any signs of stress or weakness when Peter had held his apple and crushed the empty juice box. _Head? Impossible._ Tony's questions had been readily answered with no telling pauses or confusion, and Karen would've let him know if Peter had a concussion. _So what's left?_ Narrowing his eyes, Tony inspects the teenager, who fidgets with his fingers, studiously avoiding the billionaire's gaze. Almost immediately, Tony notices Peter holding one of his arms closer to his torso, an unconscious and protective gesture.

_Bingo._

“Lift up your shirt for me.”

“What?” Peter blurts, an instinctive knee jerk reaction.

“Now,” Tony prompts, snapping his fingers impatiently.

“Why,” Peter whines with a pout, petulant, but Tony sees the poorly concealed alarm in his eyes. Plus, Tony is no stranger to deflection - he knows exactly what it looks and sounds like.

What had been an observation, a deduction if you will, changes into something solid. The evidence had just been presented, and Tony knows he can't let this go. “Let me see,” he requests softly.

Peter meets Tony gaze unflinchingly, defiance and defensiveness burning with equal intensity in his soft brown eyes. He searches Tony's eyes for something; Peter seems to find what he was looking for, because the wariness bleeds away and he drops his gaze in submission. Leaning back against the sofa, Peter curls his fingers into his sweater, fiddling with the hem and chewing his bottom lip. Squeezing his eyes shut briefly, he audibly inhales a deep breath and lifts, raising his t shirt along with his sweater.

Tony’s jaw goes slack, mouth falling open. He’d known it wasn’t going to be pretty. He’d told himself to be prepared for the worst. He’d warned himself not to let it get to his head, to collect all the details first and be emotional later. He’d thought he was as prepared as he would ever be. But nothing could’ve prepared him for actually seeing it in front of him. Seeing it with his own eyes is many thousands of times worse than anything his imagination could create.

Peter’s right side is a mess of angry red, deep blue, and vivid purple, the colours mingling together like a horrific work of art on the pale skin.

“It’s not as bad as it looks. I… I bruise easily.”

 _Even if that were true, it still requires a significant amount of force. With bruises like that…_ Tony feels sick when he finally notices that the majority of the bruises converged in a specific area. _Whoever did this knew what they were doing, they deliberately targeted the one place that would inflict the most pain._

Glancing up, Tony silently seeks permission, patiently waiting until Peter nods timidly. _Do it now before you lose the courage._ “Sorry,” he whispers regretfully, placing two fingers against Peter’s bruised skin and pressing down quickly with more force than necessary.

Inhaling sharply, Peter sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, curling inward just the slightest bit. Other than that, he remains still, trembling lightly.

Tony makes a soft sound that is equal parts disbelieving and devastated, roughly running a hand down his face.

_Anyone would protect themselves or retaliate when someone tries to hurt them, but of course this kid would sit there and take it. Of course. Anything for the little guy._

“Name,” Tony quietly demands, gently sliding his fingers down the length of each bruised rib. Carefully, he adjusts to the rise and fall of Peter’s chest, diligently keeping his touch featherlight.

Peter sighs softly, relaxing against the back of the sofa. Tony doesn’t need to look up to know that the teenager is confused.

“Tell me who did this, give me a name.” Satisfied that none of Peter’s ribs were broken, Tony draws his hand back, gazing sorrowfully at the discoloured skin.

“It’ll be gone in a few hours,” Peter reassures Tony, tugging his clothes back into place.

“Tell me,” Tony commands, low and menacing.

Surprise and fear dances momentarily across Peter’s face, but he shakes his head, resolutely pressing his lips together.

Tony huffs, angrily leaning back against the sofa, sitting tense and rigid.

Hesitantly, Peter shifts closer to Tony. “Please don’t,” he whispers.

“...Fine. I won’t.”

Peter wiggles even closer, leg pressing against Tony’s. The billionaire instantly relaxes, nudging Peter until the teenager gladly plasters himself to Tony’s side, resting his cheek on Tony’s shoulder. Tony slips an arm around Peter, mindful of his ribs, and Peter hums happily.

“Alright kid, pick a movie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later, without letting Peter know, Tony visits Ned Leeds and gently persuades Peter's best friend to tell him who was bullying Peter at school (Please, Tony has a fully functioning brain, it's obviously a bully). Then, Tony Stark pays a cordial visit to Peter's "friend" (read: bully) and has a wonderfully enlightening discussion. No one hears a word about that meeting, and Peter is left wondering why Flash no longer bothers him as much (there's only some verbal stuff thrown his way, but Flash always looks scared out of his mind when he realizes what he said. Peter doesn't mind, he's learned to tune out things).
> 
> Don't tell anyone, but I wrote this whole fic because I wanted Peter to punch Steve in the face. I understand Steve's point of view, but I definitely don't agree with the stuff he did to Tony just because he thought he was right. Let's all look forward to the next chapter :)


	2. What a Friend Should (Not) Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Look at me."

“...Tony.”

“Sure.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Tony lightly double taps the small black communicator that he had thankfully thought to slip into his ear earlier. “FRI, status,” he mumbles under his breath.

_ “Peter is asleep,” _ FRIDAY responds in his ear.  _ “All vitals are within his normal range.” _

“You know what to do.”

_ “I will immediately notify you of any changes,” _ FRIDAY agrees.

“That’s my girl.” He hopes that Peter would remain asleep; he had only just coaxed Peter into relaxing, after the teenager had silently slipped into Tony’s room, timidly waking the billionaire with a soft choked voice that trembled and shook with his distress. Tony had drowsily lifted his comforter, waiting until Peter was comfortably pressed against his side before wrapping his arms around the teenager, gently shushing his whimpers and murmuring reassurances. Once Peter had calmed down, comforted by Tony’s presence and soothing touch, he’d quickly fallen asleep, and then Tony had been alerted to the additional company that had arrived at the tower. He hated the idea of leaving Peter alone but he had no other option, so he had confidently declared to himself that he would make sure his absence is short and return quickly.

Crossing his arms across his chest, Tony raises his voice to address the three people occupying his sofas. “But he goes.” He emphasizes his words with a pointed glare, voice carefully neutral, feeling exposed and vulnerable as he stands in his thin black tank top and sweatpants.

Immediately, Steve’s eyes go hard, jaw tightening. Quiet resignation settles in Bucky’s expression. Sam Wilson simply watches, eyes alert and curious.

“He stays,” Steve says, tone deceptively light.

“I was not aware that this building is under your ownership,” Tony quips sardonically.

“Bucky stays,” Steve repeats, no longer a suggestion but a demand.

“Steve,” Bucky sighs.

“I will not have HYDRA’s  _ weapon _ in my home,” Tony growls, temper beginning to show through the cracks in his act of calm indifference.

“He's not anyone's  _ anything,” _ Steve grits out, “He's  _ Bucky.” _

“I think all the people he's killed will say otherwise,” Tony spits. “Oh, but wait, they won't be saying anything. Because they're  _ dead.” _

“That wasn't him and you know it,” Steve retorts, voice rising in volume.

“Oh I'm sorry,” Tony scoffs, “was I mistaken to think that his hands were the ones that killed those people?”

“You're insufferable,” Steve snarls. “How do people even tolerate you?”

_ Okay, that hurt. _ Tony lowers his eyes, blinking rapidly. He wants nothing more than to turn tail and leave the room, but he can't, so he takes his sorrow and tries to turn it into fuel for anger.

“He's dangerous!” Tony shouts as hurt burns like white hot coals sitting in his chest, suffocating him. “You'll never know when his trigger happy self will decide to come out and play!”

Bucky speaks up, voice quiet. “I'll go--”

“It was my greatest mistake to assume you'd think about anyone else,” Steve yells over Bucky, angrily throwing his hands up into the air. He jabs a finger in Tony's direction, taking a threatening step forward.

Even though Tony wants to stand tall and unyielding, his body betrays him, flinching back and taking an instinctive step away from Steve. “And you’re all high and mighty? You think your every word is correct and should be the law? Huh,  _ Captain America?” _ Tony bites out, each word dripping with bitter sarcasm, voice shaking slightly.

Seemingly too angry to notice Tony's reaction and spurred onward by his words, Steve stalks forward into the space the billionaire had recently vacated. “Why can't you stop being so selfish for once?”

_ Selfish? _ Tony wouldn’t have bothered with this whole argument, had it been just him in the tower. But Peter is here, asleep in his room, and Tony  _ must _ keep him safe, no matter what. He  _ needs _ to protect Peter, both for Peter's sake (he'd seen the footage, seen how the teenager had been so innocently astounded and delighted by that metal arm. Even though it definitely would’ve crushed his skull if he hadn't caught it, even though it was a savage weapon that has taken more lives than it had fingers) and his own (he didn't want to see Peter hurt, didn't want to lose him).  _ Maybe I am. _ “I have no obligation to explain myself to you.”

Steve takes more steps forward, and Tony takes small, abortive steps back, squeezing his crossed arms tightly to his chest, fingers digging into his own arms so forcefully that he can feel each individual nail pressing into his skin. His mind is filled with numbing terror, so much that he only just holds himself back from fleeing like a panicked animal being hunted.

_ “Boss, Peter is awake.” _

FRIDAY’s calm voice barely registers in Tony's frantic mind - he simply recognizes the voice as FRIDAY's before the pounding of his heart fluttering wildly in his chest drowns everything out, his breaths speeding up in panic. It takes all his willpower not to throw his hands up to protect his face as Steve continues approaching, rage written clearly on every inch of his strong body.

“Bucky had no control over the things he did, none of it is his fault, why can't you understand? He's not the dangerous one, HYDRA is, and you're too full of yourself to even think, for a second, that you might be wrong. Did anyone ever tell you? All you care about is yourself, you--”

“Steve, that's enough,” Bucky urges, speaking at the same time as Sam, who advises: “Steve, you might want to stop.”

Suddenly, the sound of skin hitting skin rings out. Steve is somehow collapsed on the floor, sliding a few meters away from Tony. Someone flips nimbly through the air to land gracefully next to Tony, who is about to take a step back in fright before he recognizes the head of curly brown hair. Tony only realizes he'd been shaking when he finally stops, freezing like a statue in shock.

“Man, who the hell--” Sam starts.

“How'd you do that,” Bucky breathes in awe.

“Kid?” Tony gasps, ashamed to hear a tremble in his voice.

Peter straightens out of his crouch with a low growl that is overflowing with aggression, hands clenched into fists so tight, his knuckles are ghostly white. He flexes the fingers of one hand, opening and closing his fist, before drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders. Tony has never seen such violent rage from Peter before and it leaves him speechless; even though Peter is only 15, has the largest Bambi eyes, a baby face, and is the thinnest in the room by a landslide, in that moment he's easily the most threatening thing Tony has ever seen, a murderous fury surrounding him like a nearly visible sinister fog.

Steve's mouth is open, a hand clutching his cheek as he props himself up on an elbow, moving to get up. Shifting to stand like a protective wall in front of Tony, Peter actually snarls, like an enraged predator, the warning ringing out loud and clear in the silence. Every single person in the room instinctively sinks into a defensive position, eyes warily trained on Peter.

“Kid?” Tony takes a step forward instead of back this time, uncrossing his tingling arms and cautiously setting a hand on Peter's tense shoulder. “You’re supposed to be sleeping. And you just decked  _ Captain America.” _

Peter huffs, glare trained on a wisely unmoving Steve. At Tony's touch, he relaxes, just the slightest, shoulders lowering and fists unfurling. “He was hurting you,” Peter says, voice rough with sleep. He sounded sad and hurt and confused, as if he didn't understand why anyone would want to hurt Tony.

Tony's first instinct is to deny the claim; he doesn't have any injuries, after all. “No--”

“Don't bother lying Mr. Stark, I know what I heard.” Peter twists to face Tony, deliberately lowering his eyes to the billionaire's chest in a glance so quick, Tony nearly missed it. Just a quick as he'd turned around, Peter pivots back to face the other three people in the room, posture a strange mix of defensive and offensive intent. “I don't think they deserve to stay here.”

Tony is so shell shocked by Peter's soft and innocent nature being replaced by this perfectly opposite personality, his usually high functioning genius mind is stalling. At this point in time, Tony Stark’s vocabulary might as well consist of one single word. “Kid--”

Peter ignores Tony. “Go book a hotel room or something,” he tosses at the three freshly pardoned Avengers (but are they really?), “And Mr. Stark is  _ not _ paying for it, FRIDAY, you hear me?”

“Yes, little boss,” FRIDAY intoned from the ceiling.

_ “Wha--” _ Tony gasps in dramatic faux offense. “Since  _ when _ did you take orders from the kid, FRIDAY? This is betrayal.”

FRIDAY doesn’t respond and Peter gives no indication of having heard Tony’s words, so Tony sighs and abandons the idea of trying to joke his way out of the situation. “Look, kiddo, I’m flattered. But this isn’t your problem, it’s mine.” Tony can only see Peter’s back, but his words earn an obvious reaction: Peter twitches, fingers curling back into loose fists. “I’ll handle it myself. You go back to sleep, okay?”

“No.” Peter shakes his head, voice small.

Tony knows Peter will give in if he pushes just a little bit more, but his curiosity perks up, interested. “Why not?” Tony gently asks.

“I don’t want to leave you here alone,” Peter whispers timidly, like it’s a secret he’s not supposed to know, “because you’re afraid.”

Tony shuts his eyes, inhaling sharply.  _ Of course he noticed, he’s brilliant. Guess I’m not as good at hiding things as I thought. _

Steve, Bucky, and Sam are a different story; they each look like they’ve been blindsided, so shocked that Tony idly wonders if there was a ghost hovering behind him or something similar.

“...He’s supposed to be your friend, on your side. But he hurt you, so much. And so badly, that you’re  _ afraid _ of him.” Peter’s first sentence starts off calm and steady, but then his words begin shaking, each one a little more than the last. “You know, friends don’t leave each other to die alone in subzero temperatures after destroying the one thing that protects them.” He chokes out every syllable like they cause him unbearable pain to articulate, voice thick.

Tony can only stand and stare as Steve flinches like Peter's words are physical blows, his mind having gone blank with shock and a sudden high pitched ringing in his ears.

_ How does he know. Why does he know?! No one is supposed to know about this! _

_ Find out how he knows about this!  _ The knowledge hungry part of him insists, desperately needing the missing pieces of the puzzle.  _ He's crying! Because of me! He's not supposed to cry because of me, ever! Not Peter! _ He silently snarls back, the two urges battling to take precedence in his mind. Tony isn't good with emotions, so he usually defaults to his analytical and calculating side that exists to figure out how things worked with an almost clinical detachment, but  _ Peter. _ Peter is a beautiful anomaly; Peter makes Tony want to ditch the formulas and numbers, to step closer instead of away, to think of him as simply  _ Peter _ instead of a complex puzzle Tony needed to solve to understand.

Tony loves numbers and formulas because they're concrete, unflinchingly certain, with only one single correct answer to find. People are not quite so simple. But Tony has to meet hundreds of strangers just for a single conference or party, and he'd started to make a game of figuring out people, calculating their intents and personalities through just the objects they carried with them and their behaviours. He's had plenty of practice, and is proud to know that he's rarely wrong. However, Peter Parker is always a mystery, nearly infuriatingly so, oftentimes doing things the teenager himself did not even comprehend. And yet, Tony finds himself being drawn in, sinking deeper and deeper still into uncertainty, oddly content with  _ not _ understanding.

“S-sorry,” Peter stutters. “I-I'll go. To bed.” He keeps his head down as he turns to walk away, but Tony catches sight of a glittering tear falling to the tiled floor.

Instantly, Tony no longer cares about anything else. “Kid, wait! Don't cry, c'mon.”

But Peter doesn't stop. In fact, he speeds up at Tony's words, nearly flat out running towards the elevator.

Tony takes an urgent step after Peter, then pauses and sighs. He turns to Steve, who is sitting up with a wince, a hand still pressed to his cheek. “FRI said nothing's broken, but you might want to ice that. Use the rooms on your floor.” His words said, Tony promptly trots after Peter.

When Tony reaches Peter’s room after what seemed like an eternity in the elevator, the door is half closed. Unsure, Tony hovers in the doorway, peering into the dark room in hopes of… What? He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Nonetheless, Tony can’t see or hear much. It’s strangely quiet. So he braces himself for rejection and taps his fingers against the door frame with enough force to generate a sound, anxiety coiling like a heavy snake in his stomach.

There’s no response, the silence thick and unsettling.

_ He doesn’t want to see me. _ Sorrow threatens to suffocate Tony, filling his lungs like water as he knocks lightly on the door frame. “Pete?” He nods his head in slow resignation when the rejection he’d been straining to hear doesn’t reach his ears.  _ Even “Go away” would hurt less than this. _ “Okay. I’ll be in my room if you need me,” he mumbles softly. No acknowledgment for that, either.

Tony trudges to his room down the hall, sliding in and leaving the door open just a sliver, hoping that Peter would see it as an invitation if he decided to come to Tony for anything. “Lights at 40%, FRI,” he sighs, blinking tiredly as he removes the device that had been in his ear and sets it on the small table next to the door. The bright lights that had turned on the instant Tony had set foot into the room instantly dim, and the billionaire finally notices the small lump in his bed.

“...Kid?”

A sniffle, then Peter raises his head, sluggishly pulling himself upright.

_ So he didn’t ignore me. _ The revelation nearly forces a smile of relief from Tony; the idea of Peter going to Tony’s room to wait for him had never crossed his mind. Peter blinks at Tony, eyes red and glossy, wet eyelashes clumping together.

“So you were here.” Tony kicks his shoes off, padding silently to his bed and wincing at the cold flooring beneath his bare feet. He’d shoved his shoes on in a hurry earlier, reasoning that it would only be a quick expedition downstairs, but it had evidently stretched on longer than expected. “My heart almost stopped when I went to your room and you didn’t respond,” he quietly jokes, perching on the edge of the mattress.

“‘m sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“Don’t do that again, my heart’s weak,” Tony mildly scolds with a teasing laugh.

“Sorry.”

“Okay, that’s enough. I don’t want to hear another  _ Sorry _ from you.”

“‘m sor--”

“Ah! What’d I just say?”

“‘m sorry that I said too much,” Peter mumbles, eyes trained on his lap.

“Great that you brought that up, I was just about to talk about it. But first,” Tony says, “it’s cold.” He slides under the comforter, wiggling a little to settle into a comfortable position, then turns to Peter. “Kid.”

Peter fidgets.

“Look at me.”

Peter twists his fingers together, brown curls falling into his eyes.

“I said.” Tony hooks a finger under Peter’s chin, forcing the teenager to raise his head. Peter keeps his eyes lowered to the side, a single tear escaping down a pale cheek. Tony’s voice melts into a gentle whisper. “Look at me.”

A beat of silence passes before Peter raises his eyes, nervously glancing up at Tony through his wet lashes.

Tony smiles encouragingly. “That’s it,” he praises. “I’m not mad at you for what you said earlier. You were just calling it as you saw it, no harm done. Might’ve bruised my pride a little, but we all know that’s nothing, I’ll survive.” Slowly, Tony moves his hand, flattening his palm against Peter’s cheek. He wipes away the tear, soothingly sliding his thumb back and forth, tracing the delicate curve of Peter’s cheekbone. “But I need you to be honest and tell me one thing: how did you see the footage? Did FRIDAY show you?”

Peter’s anxious eyes soften with the look that always seemed to appear whenever Tony showed any kind of physical affection - a sort of quiet but deep and tranquil contentment, mixed with blinding innocence and absolute trust. Tony feels something in him melt into a puddle of pure delight when the weight against his palm becomes just a little bit heavier, like Peter was leaning into his touch. “I didn’t watch any footage.”

“You...didn’t?”

“No.”

Tony frowns, puzzled. He draws his hand back, to the disappointment of them both, and lowers it to his side. “Then, how…?”

“I care about you, Mr. Stark. I see things when you don’t think I’m looking. I didn’t put it all together at first, but after what happened earlier… It all made sense.” Peter pauses, as if waiting for Tony’s permission to continue. Tony doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he jerks his head in a small nod. “...You were scared of Captain America. And that kind of fear doesn’t come from hearing bad stories or seeing something happen, it comes from  _ when something happens to you. _ Then I remembered seeing you after you came back from a battle or something, I didn’t know, and you were hurt. Badly. And that one suit you made, that design, it disappeared. I wasn’t really sure, but... You probably went after them, tried to stop them or something. The only way they could have escaped you is if they disabled or destroyed the suit. You like your suits, so something really bad must’ve happened for you to completely get rid of that one. Plus, you came back with Captain America’s shield, so you definitely met them. And I overheard some stuff about how you went to that HYDRA base thing in Siberia… It’s cold there. I just, I don’t know, it made sense when I put it together.” Peter shrugs, eyes flickering down to Tony’s hand, fisted in the comforter. “…I should’ve punched Captain America harder. Should've at least broken his nose.”

_ Kid's a genius. _ Tony squints, feeling lightheaded.  _ He noticed all that,  _ and  _ put it all together. _

“Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark!”

Tony feels warmth on his face, slender fingers applying gentle pressure.

“Mr. Stark, you have to breathe. Take a deep breath.”

Frowning, Tony struggles to make his lungs obey, squeezing his eyes shut. He knows that voice. It would never hurt him.  _ Listen to me, dammit. _

“Please, Mr. Stark. Deep breath in,” the voice urges with an edge of panic, inhaling slowly with great exaggeration.

Tony forces himself to mimic the voice, his own inhales and exhales shaky as he follows the much smoother example.

“Yeah! That’s good,” the voice cheers delightedly after a few breaths.

This time, Tony inhales on his own, exhaling steadily without a prompt.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony blinks his eyes open.  _ Peter. _

“...Mr. Stark? Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Tony mutters, “hello Mr. Parker.”

Peter laughs, smiling. “Hi Mr. Stark.”

“I don’t know about you,” Tony says just as Peter yawns widely, “but I’m exhausted.”

Peter freezes on the tail end of his yawn, mouth still open.

“Quite the night we had,” Tony laughs, and Peter nods drowsily, yawning again. “Okay, that was one too many yawns. It’s time for Spiderbaby to sleep.”

“‘m no’ a baby,” Peter slurs in protest even as he obeys Tony’s words, falling onto the mattress and shoving his face into a pillow.

“Lights out, FRI,” Tony murmurs, amusement curling around his words like a purring cat. He lies down as the room goes dark, and Peter squirms closer, using the soft blue glow of the arc reactor in Tony’s chest as a beacon.

“G’night, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers, voice heavy with sleep. He snuggles under Tony’s arm, throwing his own over the billionaire’s ribs.

“Sweet dreams, Spiderkid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter's a brilliant little genius, no wonder Tony loves him <3
> 
> Tony could've just told Peter to stay with him (and he can lowkey keep an eye on the kid), but y'know, he's bad with emotions and sentiment related stuff :( So he does what he can, trying to eliminate any possible threats early on  
> Steve, as usual, is a self righteous prick (please Steve I get that you'd do anything for your Bucky but maybe you need to use your brain a little first. And maybe clean your eyes, you're clearly hurting Tony so much >:[ But I guess the real question is, does Steve care that he's hurting Tony?)
> 
> pLEASE PROTECT TONY HE LITERALLY CANNOT HANDLE THE TRUST AND LOVE PETER HAS FOR HIM :(
> 
> I really have no idea where I'm going with this right now, I just wanted Peter to punch Steve (I originally wanted Peter to break his nose but Peter is an adorable child and would never do something like that). Next chapter is Tony confronting Steve about that shit letter that Steve sent him as an "apology" because apparently I'm just writing everything I want to see happen LOL. Seriously, how come no one is angry about that horrendous thing, I personally want to punch Steve for sending Tony that.


	3. I Will Protect (You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...I wanted to apologize."
> 
> "Really."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MARVEL, I better not see this happening. I’ve had enough of Tony constantly being the one to apologize, to give things up, to compromise for the sake of others. I love Tony for that - he’s so selfless and generous, almost alarmingly willing to lose for what’s right - but it’s not right for him to constantly be the one sacrificing things. I'm sick of it. Give me Steve Rogers, Captain America, feeling his heart break into little pieces because he just CAN’T do what he wants/needs to anymore. But honestly, I can’t really see Steve apologizing to Tony, which makes me so angry; Steve, after being the light and hope and righteous symbol for so long, has literally changed to believe that his beliefs are correct. I mean, he does strive his hardest to do what’s “right,” but sometimes you can’t do it the way you want to, because the world doesn’t run like that.
> 
> Also, Fury, what the fuck? Tony Stark literally flew a nuke into a hole in the sky, more than just proving he was willing to die to protect the Earth, and he’s a CONSULTANT? Yes it’s just a formal title, but Tony deserves to be recognized, c’mon.

“--ny. Tony--”

The voice is low and soft, tender and coaxing. Tony huffs gently, tilting his head away from the noise that sought to drag him from the warmth and comfort of slumber. His mind - the traitorous thing - takes interest in being awake, stirring with a pleased purr; like a supercar built for the sole purpose of racing at breaknecking speeds, Tony Stark’s mind did not enjoy sitting idle for extended periods of time.

“Tony?” This time, a touch accompanies the voice, strong but careful fingers pressing firmly against the skin of Tony's bare shoulder.

Tony is still not awake enough to process who the voice belonged to, his thoughts flowing as slow and thick as honey, but his instinct is undeniably hostile in response. _ THREAT. _

Something akin to rage surges through Tony, momentarily lending his sluggish body speed and strength; his eyes fly open as he bolts upright, fist soaring through the air and making contact with something solid before he even realizes what had happened. Tony blinks drowsily, adrenaline flooding through his veins like an extremely potent dose of caffeine. His ears dimly register a pained grunt on impact, followed by a resounding crash of something large hitting his wall. Still more than half asleep, Tony frowns down at his hand, which is clad in hot rod red with accents of gleaming gold, an extremely familiar and satisfying mechanical hum filling the air when he wiggles his fingers.

_ Whoever made this is brilliant. It’s gorgeous, durable and versatile, fits perfectly, _ Tony silently praises, impressed by the work that had clearly been invested in perfecting it. Then he blinks.  _ Wait, I made this. _

A low groan interrupts Tony’s thoughts. He raises his head, muscles tensing underneath his skin, and watches as none other than Steve Rogers peels himself off the billionaire’s bedroom floor. Wide blue eyes meet Tony’s, stunned and betrayed.

Tony doesn’t hold back his low growl when someone shoves the door open and bursts into the room, his eyes still trained on Steve. Bucky rushes to Steve’s side, kneeling quickly and batting the blond’s hand away to inspect his cheek.

“You okay?” Bucky demands in a harsh whisper, flesh fingers digging into Steve’s shoulder.

Steve blinks, finally ending the pseudo staring contest that he had somehow started with Tony, and drags his gaze to Bucky. “I’m fine. This is mostly from yesterday,” he dryly remarks, gesturing at the muted and fading colours that marred his pale cheek.

Bucky makes a noncommittal sound, twisting to level a glare in Tony’s direction.

Tony sees and recognizes the protectiveness that burns in Bucky’s eyes; apparently Steve does too, his eyes flickering between Bucky and Tony. The billionaire watches as Steve frowns, squinting first at Tony, then Bucky. Something seems to click in Steve’s mind, his moment of epiphany showing clearly in his expression, then he seems to notice something else. Too preoccupied with being defensive and tracking every move of the two intruders in his bedroom, Tony doesn’t realize what Steve had been so interested in until it stirs at his side.

“Mm. Wha’s goin’ on, Mr. Stark,” a small voice mumbles, lethargic and innocently confused. “There was a loud--”

Tearing his gaze away from Steve and Bucky with great difficulty, Tony turns to see Peter languidly shifting and stretching, pawing sleepily at his eyes. One of his hands lift to delicately grip Tony’s arm, which the billionaire is surprised to realize had been held protectively over Peter without Tony’s explicit command to do so. Peter’s drowsy gaze finds Steve and Bucky, the teenager frowning lightly as his brain processes what he’d seen, before his eyes go wide as saucers. Sitting up so fast he nearly dislocates Tony’s arm, Peter frantically scans Tony for injuries, fingers tightening on the arm in his grasp.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Tony reassures, lifting his arm to display his armour protected hand. “I punched Rogers, he’s probably more hurt than me. Though you might want to let go before you break my other arm.”

With a sound that is caught between a gasp and a yelp, Peter drops Tony's arm, soft brown eyes immediately finding the mark his tight grip had left. Tony hums lightly, pressing the cold metal encasing his other hand to the red outline of Peter's slender fingers.

“Mr. Stark--”

“Don’t worry 'bout it, kid. No harm done.”

“IalmostbrokeyourarmOHMYGODI’msosorry--”

“I was being dramatic,” Tony sighs. “Quit freaking out, you freaking out is making me freak out.”

“I'm sorry,” Peter whispers.

“This won't even bruise. Calm down, Pete.” Tony slides his hand out of the Iron Man gauntlet, setting it beside him on the bed, and playfully squishes Peter's cheeks between his hands. “Breathe, kiddo.”

Peter obediently inhales a calming breath, eyes suspiciously wet when he looks up at Tony.

“Good,” Tony quietly encourages. “Hey, no tears. I know you'll never hurt me on purpose.”

“'m no’ cryin’,” Peter sniffs, scrubbing at his eyes.

“There's the kid I know,” Tony cheers with a small smile, warm and fond. “Now.” He turns to Steve and Bucky, voice hardening and lowering into a threatening growl. “Get out.”

A heavy clanking begins, approaching with the same finality of a bomb ticking down. They all remain frozen as the sound becomes increasingly louder, until one of Tony's suits (minus a hand) steps into the room with a mechanical whir. It stops next to the bed to pluck the missing gauntlet from beside Tony, settling it into place before turning to face Steve and Bucky.

“Tony--”

“Out.”

“We need to talk--”

“Okay, sure. I hope you didn’t just bust into my bedroom - by the way, FRIDAY, this will not happen again. The only person allowed in this room besides me is sitting next to me. Anyone else: happily deny entrance and take a message, I’ll leave it to you to decide whether or not I need to hear it -  _ and _ wake me up, just to tell me that we need to talk. That’s a god awful decision, even for you. You should be glad you got accidentally punched instead of fried.”

“...Boss, if I may. You were the one who left the door open last night.”

“Yeah, for the kid,” Tony snaps. “You are more than capable of shutting and locking doors, FRI, don’t try and sass me.”

“Just thought I would point it out,” FRIDAY returns, amused.

“My own AI, back talking me,” Tony sniffs haughtily. “They grow up so fast.” He dramatically wipes away an imaginary tear.

A low, rumbling growl splits the tension in the room, followed by a high pitched squeak. Mildly alarmed but greatly amused, Tony turns to Peter.

“Is the monster in your belly hungry?” Tony coos teasingly. He’s disgustingly and absolutely endeared, something in him melting with all the warmth he was feeling for one adorable -  _ annoying, _ Tony stubbornly insists,  _ I meant annoying _ \- teenager.

Peter groans into his hands, long and drawn out in anguish. Tony can’t see the flush that he’s sure is painting Peter’s cheeks a rosy red, but he can see how the teenager’s ears are glowing with a soft crimson and he can’t help it - Tony starts laughing, bright and delighted.

“This is so embarrassing, let me die,” Peter moans under his breath, a faint whine in his voice. “Mr. Stark,  _ please _ stop laughing.”

“No dying,” Tony scolds. “Go wash up, then we’ll get some food in you. Sound good?”

“Uhm, we can take care of that?” Steve suggests, small and timid. “Buck made a ton too many pancakes.”

“It’s relaxing, okay,” Bucky hisses, defensive. “Plus, food is always a good thing.”

Tony frowns, ready to  _ politely _ decline, but Peter perks up. “Maple syrup,” he chirps, ecstatic. “Can we?”

“Do I really want to deal with a hyper kid pumped full of sugar today,” Tony sighs. Peter’s eager face falls. “...Guess I do. Why not?”

Peter grins, glowing with happiness.

“Lordy, you’re giving me a toothache. Now, shoo. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Okay.” Peter rolls to the end of the bed with a soft giggle. Tony dutifully tugs the comforter out of the teenager’s way - Tony didn’t want Peter to get tangled and fall, but he also didn’t want Peter to take the warm covers with him - and keeps a careful eye on Peter as he darts to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

“Is there anything else I can help you with,” Tony deadpans, sarcastically polite. “The correct answer is no. Do I need to repeat myself again? Leave.”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Bucky grabs his arm and drags him from the room with a short nod in Tony’s direction. FRIDAY immediately shuts and locks the door, to Tony’s immense satisfaction.

_ Definitely _ not  _ looking forward to the “talk.” _

Rubbing his bare arms, Tony shivers lightly. He drags the comforter up and wraps it around himself like a cocoon, part of it dragging on the floor behind him as Tony walks. With a wide yawn that trailed off into a content hum, the billionaire quietly knocks on the bathroom door.

“Mr. Stark, ’s yo’r bathroom, why ‘re you knockin’,” Peter slurs, around what is mostly likely his toothbrush in his mouth.

“So you don’t swallow your toothbrush,” Tony quips, letting himself into the room.

Peter rinses his mouth and washes his face as Tony begins brushing his own teeth. When Peter finally notices that Tony is standing beside him practically drowning in the comforter, he burrows happily against Tony’s side. Tony allows himself to hold Peter close for a few seconds, then slides himself away, leaving the comforter hanging from the teenager’s shoulders. The billionaire plucks gently at the neck of Peter’s t shirt, points at Peter, then waves his fingers dismissively.

With a cheeky salute, Peter leaves the bathroom, taking the comforter with him.

Tony would like to say that he was not at all affected by the prospect of having a “talk” with Steve Rogers. But being in the same room as Captain America, an enhanced super soldier who had nearly killed him? With more than a 95% chance that it would be just them - the two of them - alone together? Perhaps he was just a  _ little _ bit nervous. Or so Tony repeated to himself like a mantra, as he purposefully picked out one of the sharpest black suits he owned, one he knew made him stand out with a dangerous  _ (-ly seductive) _ aura and made him look a million devastatingly handsome bucks.

_ Billion, actually. But that’s not how the saying goes. _

The anxiety running like electricity under his skin fades as he shrugs on each layer: perfectly ironed dress pants, silky black dress shirt, beautifully tailored inky jacket. He knots his tie with professional detachment and accuracy, pinning the dark fabric in place with a gleaming gold pin. Tony desperately wanted to wear running shoes, but they never failed to make him feel weak and exposed, a little too prepared to choose flight.  _ Running is not an option today. _ So he settles for completely black combat boots that reach above his ankle, somehow pleasantly light in weight despite the heavy and solid look. His hands are perfectly steady as he laces up his boots, buttons his cuffs, straightens the already straight collar of his dress shirt, and smooths out imaginary creases from his suit jacket.

_ Perfect, _ he thinks, standing in front of a full length mirror.  _ Actually. _ Tony whirls, striding to the accessory side of his closet. He grabs a pair of black tinted sunglasses with bold dark frames, sliding one of its arms into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.  _ Excellent. _ Tightening his tie just a little more and clearing his throat, Tony Stark exits his ridiculously large closet in an ensemble as dark as shadows.

_ Stark men are made of iron, _ Howard Stark purrs in Tony’s mind.  _ Straighten your spine. Weakness will not be tolerated, boy. _

And Tony listens: he stands taller with his back stiff but straight, lifts his chin with a cocky edge, stalks forward with lazy predatory steps, and shoves his hands into his pockets with casual but calculated carelessness.

Peter meets him in the hallway, dressed in an outfit that is a jarring polar opposite to Tony’s. While Tony’s tailored suit clung to him like a needy lover, hugging his body and accentuating  _ everything _ (the dip of his spine, the roundness of his butt, the broad slope of his strong shoulders, the firm curve of his thick thighs, the tapering of his trim waist), Peter’s hoodie and sweatpants combo was like an oversized coat, enveloping the teenager in loose fabric and making him look even smaller than he actually was. The only thing they had in common was the shade they had both decided on for each article of clothing.

“Mr. Stark, do you really need to wear a designer suit in your own home,” Peter asks, pointedly waving a hand at Tony. Except the hoodie sleeve was longer than the teenager’s arm, which resulted in only the tip of Peter’s fingers peeking out, even when he straightened his arm to its full length.

_ Adorable, _ Tony’s mind instantly supplies.

_ He looks like a child trying to wear his father’s clothes, _ Tony retorts.

_ But is that a bad thing? _

_...I’m not going to have an argument with myself. _

“Always dress to impress,” Tony remarks flippantly.

“Oh.” Peter looks down at his hands, tugging restlessly at a sleeve. “Should I… Should I change?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you said…” The teenager glances up at Tony, who is frowning in confusion.

“I never said you had to change. You look fine, why would you need to change? In fact, I insist you keep that on.” Tony leads Peter to the elevator, talking as they walked.

Peter steps into the elevator after Tony, ducking his head shyly and flushing at the billionaire’s words.

“Where’d you get something so big, anyway,” Tony idly wonders as the elevator descends. “It definitely isn’t your size.”

“This isn’t mine,” Peter replies, fiddling with his fingers.

“Oh. ...Then whose is it?”

“Yours.” Peter’s voice is small and nervous.

“Oh.” Tony blinks. “Kid, if you don’t have anything to wear, you can tell me.”

“No, nono! Mr. Stark, I have my own clothes. I just…”

“Like stealing my clothes?” Tony teases with a smile, just as the elevator doors open.

_ “Stoppp,” _ Peter whines, pulling up the hood and practically disappearing into the hoodie as he steps out of the elevator.

Profoundly pleased with the idea of Peter being comfortable enough around him to steal and wear his clothes, Tony follows after the teenager. “I can’t believe this, you’ve stolen my favourite hoodie from me,” he dramatically complains, unable to keep his laughter from bleeding into his voice.

“It’s mine now,” Peter returns with equal drama, giggling as he plays along.

“Unbelievable. In my own home,” Tony laments, catching up to Peter and falling into step as they head toward the kitchen. “It’s okay, my closet is too big for me to realize anything’s missing. Steal away. Just try not to take all my clothes from me.”

Peter catches sight of the table, where Steve and Bucky are staring in the direction of the elevator with their mouths open, half eaten piles of pancakes in front of them. There are two plates in front of adjacent empty seats, piled high with pancakes, and Peter makes a beeline straight for a plate. “I would never touch your suits, Mr. Stark.”

“But my hoodies are fair game?” Tony continues with his leisurely slow pace while Peter rushes forward.

“You rarely wear your hoodies. They’re being neglected,” Peter says as he plops down at the table, ignoring the two super soldiers’ incredulous gazes and spearing a pancake with a fork. He takes a giant bite, chewing a few times before exhaling a blissful moan.

“Hey, I’ll have you know I’ve worn all the hoodies in my closet at least once,” Tony sniffs, carefully sitting on the empty seat next to Peter. “Slow down kid, the food isn’t going anywhere,” he mutters, tugging down Peter’s hood.

Peter raises his head to scowl at Tony with as much menace as an irritated Pomeranian, messy chestnut curls sticking up every which way and cheeks inflated like a chipmunk. He chews for a minute, then swallows. “These are so good,” he sighs happily. “But you know what would make them better--”

“Let me guess, maple syrup,” Tony interrupts, rolling his eyes.

_ “Yes.” _

“Here.” Bucky nudges the bottle closer to Peter.

Tony spends the next ten minutes eating pancakes and watching Peter with increasing apprehension as the teenager mows through pancake after pancake covered in blankets of syrup. After a while - when Tony had his fill of pancakes and had left the table to make his coffee - even Steve and Bucky are gaping at Peter, equal parts amused and astounded to see such a small person pack away so much food.

Peter insists on clearing the dishes, briefly arguing with Bucky, who relents only after catching sight of the glare Tony shot his way. It isn’t too difficult, just rinsing the plates and utensils used, then setting them in the dishwasher.

“Kid. Go down to the lab and get started without me. Make some refills, yeah? Rogers and I need to have our ‘talk’.”

Frowning, Peter balks, eyes worried.

“I’ll be in your room,” Bucky murmurs to Steve, leaving the room without hesitation.

Tony nods reassuringly. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

“...Okay.”

“FRI? Take Pete down with the private elevator.”

“Yes, boss.”

Sipping at his coffee, Tony waits until both elevators leave before turning back to Steve. “So. What did you want to talk about?”

“...I wanted to apologize,” Steve says, still sitting at the table.

“Really.” Tony sets his mug on the kitchen island, fiddling with the dishwasher settings.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Tony.”

Clicking the button to start the dishwasher, Tony meets Steve’s imploring gaze. “Apology not accepted, Rogers.” Tony’s voice is quiet. “Remember that letter?  _ That _ was your chance at an apology. Not that sorry to say, you blew it. That was everything  _ but _ an apology.”

“I--”

_ “‘Hopefully one day you can understand--?’ _ What kind of  _ condescending--” _ Tony cuts himself off with a sharp exhale.

“Tony--”

“We all make mistakes. You made yours. I made mine. You can stay here, as long as you want. Just… Don’t try apologizing anymore, we both know you don’t mean it.”

“I do mean it--”

“No, you don’t,” Tony smiles, soft and sad. “You would do it all again.”

This time, Steve doesn’t say anything.

“I know what you’re like. My dad talked about you more than he even thought about me. I guess it was my fault for not seeing something like this coming. You’re faultlessly loyal to your team, you’d do anything for them. But I was never part of the team, was I.” Tony laughs, a hollow and humourless sound. “See, I’m full of mistakes. Maybe I should be the one apologizing.”

“No,” Steve blurts, a little too quickly to be believable. He winces noticeably, with an emotion near regret. But not quite, exactly.

“And yet you don’t mean that either,” Tony whispers, voice full of hurt. He slowly closes his fingers around his mug, then turns. “...I’m sorry.”

Tony takes a few steps away, towards the elevator, feeling the crushing weight on his shoulders become just a little easier to bear. “I forgive you, Rogers. That’s what you wanted to hear, right? It’s already done and over. We can’t change the past, any of it. Live here if you want. But. Let’s be very clear on one thing: If you or Barnes or anyone associated with you two harm a single hair on the kid’s head, you’ll be answering to me. And I won’t bother to hesitate like last time. You’ll be wishing you never survived the freezing and defrosting.”

Unlike any of Tony’s previous threats and outbursts of anger, Tony articulates these words carefully and deliberately, tone smooth and even, almost pleasantly light. There’s not a single hint of anger or uncertainty; these words are calm and calculated, spoken like an unchangeable fact. No one has ever seen Tony Stark so angry that he’s…  _ not, _ and it’s terrifying. This wasn’t a threat, it was a promise, formulated and thoroughly planned, just like any one of the mathematical problems or formulas that Tony solves with absolute and effortless confidence - because he knows he can and will do it, a fact that is as unwavering and unchanging as the sun rising each day. And who wouldn’t fear a man with a genius brain and an iron will? He could do anything, as long as he set his mind to it.

The first thing Tony does when he arrives at his lab is to remove his tie and jacket. Tossing them (he was careful with his jacket though, he didn't want to break his sunglasses) onto the worn sofa sitting in a corner, he unfastens the top three buttons of his dress shirt, rolling his sleeves up past his elbow. “Hey kid, how's it going?”

Peter jumps a little, startled. He'd been extremely concentrated on measuring and mixing chemicals together to create his web fluid, a frown scrunching up his face behind his goggles and his tongue peeking out between his teeth. Usually - what Peter called, with a great deal of exasperation and annoyance - his Spider Anxiety would've warned him of another person, but apparently Tony's presence was no longer perceived as a possible threat to Peter or his spider side. “Oh hey Mr. Stark! You scared me. Just making a lot of web.”

“You're really wearing my hoodie while you fiddle with chemicals.” Tony takes a sip of his coffee, leaning casually against a table.

“Sorry Mr. Stark. I'm always cold.”

“Hm,” Tony acknowledges. “Try not to set it on fire.” He clicks his fingers, cold blue holograms appearing in the air. “FRI, bring up files for 17A, and nudge the temperature in here up two degrees.” Tony spends a good chunk of time fiddling with the blueprints of the Iron Spider, frowning as he considers the possible repercussions of adding an even stronger heater to the suit, muttering about durability and flexibility under his breath.

When Peter had finished creating a near obscene number of extra web cartridges, he watches Tony. The billionaire working was always a sight: his deft piano fingers fluttering gracefully through the air, frequently coiffed hair standing up in soft messy tufts from when he runs his fingers through it, pleased murmurs lighting him up whenever he created a solution for a possible problem, the awe inspiring focus and delight that came only from a man doing the work he loved most in the world.

“Pete.” Tony doesn’t turn from the holograms, making a crushing and tossing gesture, much like one would do to paper. A part of a prototype of the Iron Man suit (probably another new Mark) becomes a bright ball of light, flying into a glowing garbage can.

“Mm?”

“Want to help me add some new upgrades to my suit?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think Tony Stark is a complicated man with many armours:  
> infamous Iron Man armour = the world’s indestructible and flashy hero;  
> a sharp and very expensive suit with a pair of tinted sunglasses = cocky and self centered billionaire Tony Stark, with an unbelievable mouth and a saccharine sweet smile;  
> Black Sabbath t shirt or casual long sleeves = inventor/mechanic Tony, with a drive to make things right or fight until it is;  
> soft and worn t shirts or thin black tank tops = Peter's Tony, warm and genuine, a Tony that no one else has ever had the pleasure to meet or experience except sometimes Pepper or Rhodey
> 
> Of course his "armours" don't dictate his behaviours, but he finds it easier to don his “different personalities” with his different armours, like a second skin. I wouldn't exactly call them separate personalities because they're all part of his complex character, but it's obvious he changes and adapts to bring parts of his personality/behaviour into sharper focus depending on his company. Everyone does that, to an extent, but Tony has been hurt too often and usually plays the “arrogant asshole rich dude with horrible snark” card, since people will usually give those kind of personalities a wide berth - and plus, having people outright hate you and not be able to stand you is much better than them pretending to like you and taking advantage of you.
> 
> Oh man I could go on and on about his gorgeously deep and complex character, I love him so mUCH
> 
> (I might do another chapter or an epilogue, I'm not ready to let this be complete yet. If you have any ideas, please feel free to comment!)


	4. (Stay) Close To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tony. You didn't tell me you had guests."
> 
> "I don't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endgame destroyed me asdskhfg I couldn't even bring myself to write this for a while and switched to write some fluff for Supernatural to clear my mind :((
> 
> This one's for Rhodey!! The idea of how soft Tony was during his MIT days literally haunted me for weeks until I wrote it lol

“Pass me a triangle head screwdriver?”

No response. That’s fine, because he wasn’t expecting one. The most he could have possibly gotten was a short, distracted hum, and even that is a rare occurrence. He understood that, of course; he knew exactly how it felt to be fully immersed in his work, mind efficiently churning thoughts and ideas so quickly his hands had trouble keeping up. When he was focused like that, he wouldn’t respond to anything unless it was extremely important, not deigning to respond to trivial inquiries and requests, needing to keep potential breakthroughs and discoveries in his mind long enough to scribble them down. So instead of waiting for a reply, Tony patiently holds out an open hand, palm up, and fiddles with a blueprint with the other.

“Kid?”

There’s no telltale fumbling through full drawers. No smooth hum from the wheels of a plush office chair being rolled across the floor. Most importantly, no triangle head screwdriver being placed into Tony’s waiting hand. Easily, he brushes aside the brief flash of irritation that surfaces, huffing a soft sigh of fond exasperation.

“Kiddo, did you fall asleep on me again? How many times do I have to tell you, sleep in a bed--”

The gentle admonishment putters out, Tony’s words dying in his throat. He blinks, mouth open, at the workspace next to his own, the metal tabletop covered with scattered tools and materials.

“FRI, where’s the kid?” Tony tries to keep his panic out of his voice, heart picking up speed in his chest as his anxiety rears its head. He has evidently failed his mission, for FRIDAY’s reply is in a delicate and soothing tone: “Peter is fine. He is currently in the kitchen.”

 _Oh._ “Is the pizza here?”

“It has not arrived.”

_...Then what’s the kid doing, spending so long in the kitchen?_

“He is speaking with Sergeant Barnes.”

“Did I really say that aloud?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Oops.” _Kid’s not dying, not injured, good-- Barnes?!_ Tony feels his heart trip and skip a beat; a quiet distressed sound escapes his throat without his permission. He jumps to his feet, abandoning his current project without a second thought, and sprints to the elevator.

Confined in the tiny moving metal box, Tony absently flexes his fingers, itching to summon his armour. He wants to burst onto the main floor with his repulsors charged and ready to fire, craves the feeling of nanoparticles cold as ice and stronger than steel climbing over the knuckles of his fingers.

Tony remembers eyes of the lightest blue, almost grey, with clear and startlingly hard depths, yet brittle and fragile at the same time; a strong, lithe body, sharp muscles of a soldier moving readily, powerfully, with purpose and practiced ease, unyielding with almost clinical detachment - _Victory at all costs, carry out your orders soldier, nothing more and nothing less._

 _An unwilling pawn,_ Tony understood, _a single soldier sent to fight a war. A broken, tired toy soldier, somehow managing to survive out of sheer desperation, praying for rest and only proving to be the most dangerous - most useful - weapon._

Tony remembers eyes of the lightest blue, desolate and forlorn, blank in a way that hid only the worst of shattered emotional turmoil. Tony remembers a strong, lithe body with sharp muscles of a soldier, exhausted and reckless, tired of the wars it couldn’t escape, moving effortlessly through the ingrained motions of _attack-block-parry-dispatch,_ hating every lethal move it executed flawlessly but needing to survive.

He remembers seeing a warrior that lived its whole life on the battlefield, and although he wanted to offer the peace and quiet domestic life it needed like a first breath of fresh air, something in Tony screamed _NO._ See, he had something he had to keep safe, no matter what. The kid, _his_ kid, an innocent little fledgling, a child born in a storm of loss, pain and heartbreak threatening to crumble the small frame but only managing to leave the bright soul with overwhelming kindness and endless sorrow. Through all the injustice that would leave anyone else dark and bitter and angry with the world, this child remained bright and open and trusting, wide doe eyes finding and coaxing out the light in even the darkest corners. This child has never laid eyes on a true battlefield, a real war, and he didn’t deserve to know of such horror. Tony had resolved to keep his kid away from the soldier for as long as he could, but it was only the afternoon, barely a few hours since their brief and mostly silent meeting at breakfast, and he’d already failed.

_Just another one to the list of my colossal screw ups._

Darting out of the elevator before the doors were even fully open, Tony silently approaches the kitchen area of the floor, steps slow and posture casual but deliberate and measured. Peter’s voice carries easily across the open space, words low and rapid with his excitement. Rounding the corner, Tony spots Peter, talking a mile a minute as he runs his fingers over the Winter Soldier’s metal arm, childlike glee and delight brightening his words. Bucky Barnes readily bends his arm at the elbow at Peter’s request, delicate gears whirring almost soundlessly as the limb moves.

Tony feels his eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. “Pete!”

With an equally startled and guilty yelp, Peter leaps over the kitchen island to land in a silent crouch behind it, out of sight.

“Whoa, what the,” Sam exclaims, eyeing the waist high height that Peter had just effortlessly cleared, “how did you do that?”

Tony scowls in Peter’s direction. As if sensing the billionaire’s displeasure, Peter’s head pops up from behind the island; he obediently stands and scurries to Tony’s side, nervously ducking his head in apology. Immediately, Tony’s eyes begin hunting for injuries, and Peter can’t help the soft whine that slips into his voice.

“I’m _fine,_ Mr. Stark, they didn’t even recognize me, I know you said not to and I’m sorry but--”

“Recognize?” Bucky wonders, eyebrows furrowing.

Peter turns, simultaneously straightening up and dramatically clearing his throat. “You have a metal arm? That is _awesome,_ dude!”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “You’re the kid--”

“Yep,” Peter chirps. “Watch this!” He hops up onto the counter, then smoothly leaps from there to the high ceiling, standing upside down and grinning.

“Kiddo, do you know how hard it is to clean the ceiling?” Tony weakly chastises, finally finding his voice.

“What the--”

The change in the room is instant: Sam unfolds his casually crossed arms, slipping into a subtly defensive position; Bucky sighs a soft _Steve,_ his tone vaguely disappointed - or was that a hint of irritation? - to Tony’s ears; Peter leaps down from the ceiling, landing heavily on his feet just a few inches in front of Tony, not thinking to dampen the force of impact in his haste. Tony winces at the thought of the strain Peter had just put his ankles and knees through, the worry quickly forgotten as Steve steps closer.

Not even trying to be subtle, Tony steps in front of Peter, the whole room tensing with the movement. Steve freezes, watching as Tony and Peter silently battle to stand protectively in front of each other. They finally settle on a compromise, both taking a single step back from Steve and standing side by side.

“You’re from Queens,” Steve carefully says.

“And you’re from Brooklyn,” Peter shoots back, wary.

“Okay, okay, stand down,” Tony interjects, moving to stand in between them like a referee.

“Tony?”

Four pairs of eyes turn to the elevator.

 _“Honeybear!”_ Tony gasps, trotting over enthusiastically and stopping just a step short. “You came to visit me!”

“Yeah, well. Would’ve came earlier; been busy relearning how to walk,” Rhodey quips, spreading his arms. “C’mere Tones, we both know you want to.”

To the surprise of everyone else in the room, Tony happily closes the distance, wrapping his arms around his friend and squeezing hard enough for Rhodey to wheeze a teasing _Oof_ as he reciprocates.

_Rhodey loves Tony. He still remembers back when Tony had been a scrawny little child, all shy and nervous, nearly a silent ghost scurrying through the halls of MIT. He remembers Tony with the widest, roundest chocolate brown eyes and thick unruly hair of the same colour, timid and skittish like an abused animal. He remembers when he’d befriended tiny Tony - it is still one of the toughest things he’d ever managed to do in his life to this day - and marveled at the brightness that glowed to life in those curious but frightened eyes._

_The silence had dissipated like a sudden summer storm, the small genius rambling non stop to Rhodey about material and topics so dense, even the professors that had overheard a few sentences would pause and gape. And although Rhodey didn’t understand - still doesn’t, really - a single word, he loved to see Tony talk so excitedly and animatedly about the things he was genuinely interested in, loved to hear the excited words that tripped over themselves in their haste to exit Tony’s mouth, his prepubescent voice cracking adorably whenever Tony got too excited to mind his voice rising an octave as he realized something during his rambling. They both knew that Rhodey did not understand a single thing, but Rhodey listened with all the attention he could muster for words he couldn’t make up or down of, enthusiastically encouraging Tony to tell him more whenever the genius mumbled_ I should stop talking; it’s probably annoying, me talking your ear off all the time. _And if Tony ever stuttered to a sudden halt in the middle of a sentence because he’d noticed Rhodey gazing at him with eyes so full of delighted wonder and fondness and_ This is my best friend, I wouldn’t trade him for the world, _that was a secret they would both take to the grave._

_Rhodey had always made sure that Tony knew he was more than welcome to talk as much as he wanted, about whatever he wanted, and whenever he wanted, around Rhodey, because the world was not kind to such unprecedented intelligence at such a young age. He’d never forget that one conversation they’d had, back when they were both a little drunk on days of no proper sleep, minds muddled with exhaustion and lips loose._

_“Rhodey, there’s something wrong with me,” Tony had breathed after they’d laughed themselves hoarse at something Rhodey could no longer remember._

_Rhodey remembered his smile, the echoes of his laughter, dropping straight into his stomach, where a yawning pit of anxiety for his friend had opened. That tone was_ wrong, _that was not his Tony; not the kid who smiled easily and warmly for Rhodey, not the brilliant kid who was made of eagerness to soak in new information like a huge sponge and worked so hard he forgot to eat and sleep, not the kid who would never admit to needing the gentle touches Rhodey occasionally offered as comfort for them both, not the kid who woke up in the mornings with his hair sticking up every which way and giggled shyly in response to Rhodey’s drowsy laughter and attempts to flatten the soft tufts. This tone was the Tony from before Rhodey, the Tony that was a constantly kicked puppy, wary and afraid and broken._

 _“I don’t want to be like this,” Tony choked out. “I just--” He stops, blinking rapidly and inhaling sharply. “I just--” He makes a soft desperate sound, sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, twists his slender fingers together almost angrily as he forces himself to finish his sentence. “I just want to be_ normal.” _The last word cracks on a wounded sob, and Rhodey had never been so ready to go to war for someone._

 _“They’re just jealous that you’re smarter than they are,” Rhodey hissed, anger sharpening his words. “You’re a genius, Tones, and I wouldn’t have you any other way. Don’t listen to them,_   _they don’t even understand what they’re saying.”_

_Tony’s lips had twitched up in a hesitant smile, round brown eyes glossy when he peers up at Rhodey._

_“My genius best friend is going to change the world and those assholes will be working for you, Tones, mark my words.”_

_“Stop that,” Tony had scoffed, but his smile had grown a little brighter, a little wider._

_Rhodey loves Tony. He’s not the tiny child genius from MIT, anymore. He’s not shy or timid, the young innocence gone and hardened with age and experiences. Before, Tony was just the extraordinarily smart son of Howard Stark, weighed down by the expectations of his father’s name, but now Tony Stark is his own man - still shadowed by his father’s reputation, yes, but now Tony Stark is more than just ‘child of Howard Stark.’ He’d changed Stark Industries into something_ more, _and Rhodey finds himself hating every word the media dares to spew against Tony._

“Rhodey, save me from them,” Tony dramatically whines with all the petulance of a toddler.

 _Tony has changed,_ Rhodey muses, _but only in the best ways._

Sure, Tony no longer rambles to Rhodey about complex things Rhodey would never understand as often as before because he created FRIDAY for that, but Rhodey still occasionally manages to coax a minimum of half an hour of rambling out of Tony, sitting back with coffee as he listens and watches Tony wave his arms around emphatically. The words still trip excitedly over themselves, but Tony’s voice no longer breaks because of puberty; instead, it’s deep and warm, smooth and elegant and dark like the coffee he constantly drank. Older Tony keeps a tighter lid on his emotions, stubbornly refusing to divulge his thoughts, but Rhodey still catches the childlike delight that glows in Tony’s brown eyes from time to time. And now, Tony isn’t quite so reluctant with physical contact, intelligent eyes having learned to detect exactly when Rhodey is feeling down or troubled, and indulgently bestowing deliberate contact as comfort - casual shoulder bumps, delicate knuckle nudges, reassuring shoulder pats. Hugs are the big guns, and usually Tony left it to Rhodey to give those.

Rhodey laughs, low and amused, sending Peter a cheerful friendly smile as he absentmindedly smoothes a hand up and down Tony’s back. “Tones, you love the kid, don’t lie.” Just as those words are said, Rhodey spots the other occupants standing stiffly in the room, his arms tightening protectively around Tony, eyes going hard and smile going frigid. “Tony.” The billionaire perks up, turning his head to gaze up at Rhodey with soft brown eyes. “You didn’t tell me you had _guests.”_

“I don’t,” Tony returns, puzzled. “Oh. Cap and co. moved in yesterday.”

“Who authorized that.”

Tony either doesn’t notice that coldness in Rhodey’s tone, or is choosing to overlook it. “Me.” _Uh, obviously?_

Rhodey pulls back to meet Tony’s eyes. Tony tips his head to one side, lowering his eyebrows in his confusion.

“And why did you do that,” Rhodey asks, voice patient and gentle.

“...Because they asked, and I have floors?”

Rhodey sighs. “Listen, Tones, you are not obligated to house people who tried to kill you,” he says, glaring at Steve.

“That’s what I said,” Peter chirps, suddenly appearing at Rhodey’s side.

“Yeah well I tried to kill them too,” Tony mutters.

“Hey hey Mr. Guilt Complex,” Rhodey scolds, slow anger boiling in his eyes, “there is such thing as being too nice.”

“Nice, me?” Tony scoffs. “That wasn’t even a funny joke, Rhodey.”

“You’re the nicest person I know, Tones.”

Peter aggressively nods his agreement; Tony ignores him.

“Clearly, you only know me. Or, you only know crap people.”

Rhodey shoots Peter a desperate look, and Peter shrugs with a grimace.

“Look, Cap and I had a talk, we’re over it.”

“Okay, Tony. If you’re okay with it. Hey, why don’t we go down to your lab for a while,” Rhodey suggests. “These things have been perfect but I think they could stand for a little bit of fine tuning.” He lifts a prosthetic leg, and Tony’s attention is immediately caught.

“Tell me what the problem is,” Tony commands, gesturing for Peter to follow as he leads Rhodey to the elevator.

Peter doesn’t move, eyes lowered to the ground.

“Kid?”

“Uh, Mr. Stark…”

Tony catches the glance Peter aims at Bucky’s direction, almost immediately understanding Peter’s intentions. “No.”

The teenager turns wide pleading brown eyes to Tony. Frowning, the billionaire glances at Rhodey for backup, but is greeted with an open, encouraging smile. Tony sighs; Peter brightens.

“...Can,” Bucky speaks quietly, shyly, glancing nervously from Tony to Steve and back to Tony, “...also--”

“Fine, whatever,” Tony dismisses with a flippant wave of his hand, “as long as your merry band doesn’t touch anything.”


	5. (What Are) You, Without The Armour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ah, I wouldn't move if I were you."

_“Big man in a suit of armour. Take that off, and what are you?”_

Steve would be lying if he said the thought _Tony Stark would be nothing without the armour_ never crossed his mind. Along with the rest of the world, Steve assumed that Tony Stark is a man who only cared for himself, a playboy living the luxurious life, with more than enough money to hire people to do everything he ever wanted or needed. In that way, the world continued moving around the idea that rich Mr. Tony Stark is a normal, average person with a copious amount of money in their possession. Unlike the rest of the Avengers, Iron Man is seen to be useless and an easy target if he were ever without his armour. Steve supposed Tony’s sly tongue could possibly be of use, negotiation wise, and his brilliant mind would likely send any telepathic enemy straight into shock with all the simultaneous complex thought processes occurring at the same time. All the other normal humans in the Avengers were trained to be fighters, to be soldiers, but not Tony Stark; Steve, as a war strategist, knew that any civilian in a war is a liability.

Boy, was Steve wrong. Tony Stark may not be a trained soldier, but he is far from helpless.  


 

 

He was bored. Lost among the vaguely drunk crowd of the rich party meant to show the public that Captain America, leader of the Avengers until he had gone rogue, was no longer at war with Iron Man, Steve sighed. The first few hours had been exceedingly tedious for both Tony and Steve, filled with polite false smiles and honeyed words in response to all the questions from reporters shoving giant cameras in their faces. After a handful of uneventful hours, the paparazzi had eventually drifted away and left, leaving Steve and Tony to mingle with the rest of the people at the party. Confronted by an extremely clingy woman who wouldn’t take a hint, Steve had excused himself to use the bathroom, feeling relieved and slightly alone when he returned to the party hall and not a single person approached him or even glanced in his direction.

Standing idly by the refreshments table, Steve pondered what Bucky could be doing, back at the Tower. Tony had been greatly reluctant to leave Bucky and Sam alone with the spider kid from Queens, and had only caved when the kid enthusiastically offered to send him short videos as hourly updates. Steve figured the kid was likely still fiddling with Bucky’s metal arm down in Tony’s lab, or perhaps he’d moved onto Redwing, Sam’s miniature drone.

Earlier in the day, during the first few hours of the afternoon, Tony had worked on the prosthetic legs of his good friend Rhodey, and the kid from Queens had eagerly taken apart Bucky’s metal arm, diligently creating a holographic file of all the details he discovered. Sam had absently remarked that the kid was likely just as smart as Tony, and Queens had glowed with pride, slender fingers deftly fluttering through the air as he twisted the perfect blue image replica of Bucky’s arm. _Mm, smarter,_ Tony had remarked, rolling his chair over to affectionately ruffle the kid’s hair, who had flushed brightly with the praise. Then Sam had teasingly demanded the kid fix his wings, claiming that _Stark wouldn’t take care of my baby,_ much to Tony’s exasperation.

Speaking of Tony, the last time Steve had seen him, the billionaire had been nursing a tall glass of champagne. Tony had looked to be just as bored - perhaps even more - with the party as Steve is, expressions falling flat, periodically peering into his glass with no real interest as he swirled the liquid around.

Graciously turning down an offer for a drink, Steve smiles warmly at the nervous waiter, who bows quickly and scurries away to serve a group of giggling women. Scanning the giant party hall, Steve searches the sea of faces for easily recognizable brown coiffed hair and perceptive dark eyes. He spots Tony standing near a wall on the opposite side of the hall, looking quite sharp in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, frowning lightly at the quarter inch of champagne left in the glass trapped between his elegant fingers. Steve dodges and weaves his way through the crowd towards Tony, fully intending to request their leave - after all, they have already spent most of the evening tolerating this seemingly endless social gathering. He is more than ready to see Bucky again; since Steve had seen Bucky’s face on that highway for the first time in more than 70 years, he’d been living in a state of _how is this real, it can’t be real,_ and couldn’t bring himself to stay apart from Bucky for too long, out of fear that Steve would wake up and find that it was all just a dream, that Bucky had died in the fall from the train.

Steve pauses, only halfway across the distance to Tony, when he notices a _tall_ man approaching the oblivious billionaire. With short cropped dirty blond hair so dark it was nearly brown and flawlessly tanned skin, the stranger rivals even Thor in both looks and height; he has high delicate cheekbones and the sharpest jawline Steve has ever seen, perfectly smooth skin interrupted only by a shadow of light stubble, gorgeously symmetrical features suggesting at an otherworldly origin. Not-Thor immediately catches Tony’s attention with a charming smile, the two striking up a conversation that Steve couldn’t make out over the noise of other partygoers.

Tony seems pleased, posture loose and relaxed, and Steve finds himself resolving to endure just a bit more of his boredom, if not for Tony to have just one favourable interaction for the night. As he is about to turn away and seek something to occupy himself with, Steve glances back one last time, and finds that Tony’s entire demeanor has shifted; he nods agreeably in response to something Not-Thor says, but the smile that is plastered on Tony’s face is flimsy. The billionaire is startlingly near nervous as he drains his champagne in one long swallow, and Steve narrows his eyes at the man who joins Tony and Not-Thor.

This new stranger is near Tony’s height, just about half an inch taller, with thick black hair on the longer side and hard eyes. He’s almost the polar opposite of Not-Thor, thick and solid where the other man is lithe and slender, a powerful lion to the taller man's graceful gazelle. While Not-Thor is delicate beauty with an underlying deadly edge, Not-Tony is power with sharp features; he's strong, thick with well defined muscles that indicated _heavy_ weight lifting, and looks the exact definition of criminally suspicious. Like someone who is meant to be the bodyguard of a dangerous boss in a high place. Not-Thor on his own was simply a friendly giant, but with Not-Tony by his side, the two were practically a pair of seasoned thugs who kidnapped people for ransoms, all practiced straight faces and threatening muscle power with looming height. Steve has seen his fair share of normal criminals that the police usually handle, enough to know these two are trouble, so he keeps a careful eye on the group as they begin moving.

Not a single person spares the unusual group any attention beyond a single wandering glance, likely assuming that Tony had hired the men as bodyguards to escort him. Steve has the crowd parting easily as he meanders around, a good distance away from the group, eyes wandering as he tracked Tony under the pretense of searching for someone at the party.

With ease that betrayed practiced routine, Tony deftly sets his empty champagne glass on a tray when a waiter passes by, without a single pause in his forward momentum. As the trio neared the edge of the collected partygoers, Tony coughs once into an elbow, suit sleeve hitching up to expose a few inches of his arm. Not-Tony gives Tony a blatantly disinterested and mildly irritated look, more to check that he was still following obediently than out of any hint of suspicion. Tony sneakily raises his wrist to the vicinity of his mouth, and only Steve sees the flash of a red tongue before Tony is lowering the arm, using the knuckles of his other hand to knock against the underside of his forearm, like he would knock on a door; he then lowers the arm behind him, simultaneously curling his fingers into a fist, rotating it, and swiftly swinging it forward to a sudden stop beside his leg. Moving much more slowly and deliberately, Tony shakes his sleeve back into place, casually sliding his hands into his pockets.

The group veers away from the party hall and down a deserted hallway, two sets of footsteps echoing louder than the last; with nothing to conceal his height behind, Steve waits around the corner, calmly noting how Not-Thor was lighter on his feet compared to Not-Tony, and Tony the lightest of them all. Oftentimes, Steve finds himself wondering if Tony had ever been trained in assassination, because Tony walked as light and stable as a cat, and Steve was more than just sure that the billionaire noticed much more than he let on. When the footsteps have receded so far that even super soldier hearing had to strain to catch them, Steve slinks into the well lit hallway, tracing the path he’d mapped in his mind earlier by the sounds of footfalls, silently creeping into a dark room.

Finding a tall bookshelf near the wall in what seemed to be a spacious storage room, Steve presses his back against the side, cautiously peering around it. The only light is filtering in through a tiny window that is too high up on the ceiling for anyone to reach - unless they could climb walls - and the weak moonlight illuminates a solitary chair sitting in the open area of the room. Steve feels a small burst of smug satisfaction with the accuracy of his own tracking skills when he spots the two strangers walking Tony towards the chair.

Refusing the clear invitation, Tony saunters up to the chair and stands in front of it, hands still leisurely jammed into his pockets. Not-Thor and Not-Tony also stop, pulling out guns and pointing them threateningly at Tony. Steve’s heart plummets. It would have already been difficult to safely remove Tony from the situation because of the proximity of the two strangers, but Steve had the element of surprise on his side, plus the fact that he was an enhanced individual, so it was still feasible. But with the addition of guns, the risk of life threatening injury - especially Tony’s - skyrocketed to distressing heights; Steve couldn’t simply jump Not-Thor and Not-Tony and punch them into submission like he’d originally planned, not when there were lethal firearms so close to Tony’s fragile-and-purely-human body. He couldn’t risk one of the guns accidentally going off and hitting Tony. Disheartened by the odds stacked against Tony leaving this situation without a scratch, Steve silently sulks in the shadows, forced to watch and wait for a possible opening to remove the guns before subduing their owners.

“I’m sure we’re not here for a friendly chat,” Tony drawls, tone ridiculously relaxed for someone with two guns pointed directly at their chest. “What do you want?” He lazily raises his eyebrows, looking at Not-Thor. “Money?” His eyes slide to Not-Tony. “Tech?”

“You,” Not-Thor snarls.

“I’m flattered,” Tony immediately returns with a practiced smile.

“To make weapons,” Not-Tony completes.

All hints of emotion drains out of Tony’s face and he lowers his eyes to one side, the first gesture he’s made that night that didn’t have all the cocky confidence of playboy Tony Stark. As if dazed, he tips forward, forcing his body to take a wobbly step or fall on his face; Tony straightens himself up, the brief moment of instability gone as quickly as it had came, and contains his forward motion into a slow predatory stalk, approaching Not-Thor with fluid grace.

“Tell me what _you_ want,” Tony purrs, low and sultry, leaning up into Not-Thor’s space to run a finger down the man’s jawline, other hand pushing the gun down to point at the ground. His eyes are hooded and liquid pools of darkness, lips parted teasingly, body a sensually inviting curve, the dim lighting only adding to the sudden sexual tension in the room.

Steve has a sudden urge to pin Tony down - to have him writhing, to see his beautiful brown eyes glazed with pleasure, to hear his velvety dark voice break on a moan, to feel the captivating dip of Tony’s spine under his fingertips, to taste the smooth tanned skin. Stunned by his own thoughts and desires, Steve roughly shakes his head, looking away. _Mind out of the gutter, Rogers._

It’s no wonder that Tony Stark is constantly being invited to people’s beds if _that’s_ what Tony was like when he was just teasing. Or was it flirting? _What would happen if Tony ever actively tried to court someone?_ People would probably be instantly falling to their knees and happily signing their lives away, it wouldn’t even be a surprise. All of a sudden, Steve feels an enormous amount of newfound respect for Pepper Potts.

He peeks out again in time to see Tony’s lips curl into a devious smile, Not-Thor’s breaths becoming heavier in the thick silence as he gazes down at Tony, who is the picture of sly seduction, arched enticingly up into the other man’s space. Not-Tony, clearly annoyed, shoves Tony hard, until the billionaire falls into the chair with a soft startled sound. When Not-Tony pulls Tony’s arms behind his back to lock his wrists in handcuffs, Steve notices that Tony is surprisingly docile; squinting, a habit he still couldn’t kick to the curb, Steve focuses his enhanced super soldier eyes, and feels hot anger well up inside him when he sees Tony’s unfocused eyes. _What did they do to Tony?_

Not-Tony steps back with a pleased sneer. Tony raises wide doe eyes to glance up at Not-Tony, confused and fearful, nothing like the Tony Stark that Steve knew. Then Tony blinks, gaze clearing, and instinctively yanks at the handcuffs digging into his wrists with too much strength and energy, squeezing his eyes shut and curling in on himself with a pained grunt before glaring furiously up at Not-Tony. The man keeps his gun trained on Tony, reaching over to wrap a hand around the billionaire’s bicep and _yanking_ upward; with his hands chained together, Tony has no other option but to stand up, unable to bite back his pained yelp when the edges of the handcuffs are shoved against the skin of his wrists with the sudden movement. Noticing something dark staining the gleaming metal of Tony’s handcuffs, Steve’s hands curl into tight fists at his side, his anger flaring bright and hot.

“Don’t damage him,” Not-Thor snaps, shoving at Not-Tony.

The shorter man huffs in irritation, rolling his eyes. “Time to go,” he growls at Tony, gesturing with his gun.

Delicately holding his wrists together in an attempt to prevent further jostling of the handcuffs, Tony stumbles forward slowly, two guns pointed at his back, head lowered submissively. Steve resolves to wait until Tony walks by his hiding place, then jump out and detain Not-Thor and Not-Tony; he has the serum, so Steve isn’t too worried about being shot. Sure it hurts something fierce, but he didn't have his shield and Steve would rather it be him than Tony.

All the muscles in Steve's body are tense, his adrenaline racing at the mere thought of a fight to protect. His inner trained soldier cautions him against taking his adversaries too lightly - they may not be enhanced, but humans are quite the formidable opponents when they strive to be - and diligently reminds him of all the weak points he should be targeting for swift success. Tony is only a few dragging steps away from Steve and steadily approaching, as Steve's hearing informs him; he's strung so tight on anticipation that he briefly worries about possibly blowing his cover too quickly or not being able to rein in his enhanced strength and punching a bit too hard. But his body remains still, poised and ready for action, far too well trained to give in to impulsive human desires like fidgeting, all his senses focused.

The sound of something shattering - glass - echoes in the large room, and Steve twists to glance out from behind the bookshelf. Not-Thor and Not-Tony both turn, pointing their guns into the gloom, and something shoots out of the dark, slamming into the pair and sending them to the floor. Steve turns his attention to Tony, needing to confirm that he was alright before Steve could jump into action, and catches Tony pulling his wrists as far from each other as possible with the handcuffs, mercilessly digging the sharp metal into his own skin. Before Steve could even react, something hits Tony in the back and he lurches forward a step, there's a clink of breaking metal, and Tony's suddenly pivoting back to face the room in his Iron Man armour, the familiar blue light blindingly bright in the darkness.

“Down on the ground, hands up,” Tony deadpans, smashing a gun under a boot and crushing one easily in a hand, carelessly letting the pieces fall to the ground.

Not-Thor and Not-Tony immediately cower, kneeling without protest. Steve silently struggles to pick his jaw up from the floor.

The helmet pops open and Tony bends down, pushing a metal finger under Not-Thor’s chin and lifting his head. “Look what you made me do,” Tony croons before straightening back up. The armour peels open, and Tony steps out. “Now I have to pay for a window,” he sighs dramatically. “Ah, I wouldn't move if I were you, unless you want to be blasted to kingdom come.” The armour raises its hands higher in warning, palms glowing brighter.

Overwhelmed by how easily Tony had handled the difficult situation, Steve remains frozen in the shadows as Tony straightens his suit cuffs with a breathy sigh of discomfort. The billionaire straightens his spine, schooling his expression back into blank impassiveness, as if preparing to return to the party. Before he could make another move, Tony suddenly sways, just barely catching himself, blinking rapidly with a bewildered frown. He shakes his head, a sharp jerk of motion. “...FRI?” Tony groans, the words he struggles to utter slurring together. “I think…” Staggering forward a step, Tony reaches for the suit. “Ac...tivate--”

“The Exit Party Protocol, Boss?” The AI’s calm voice suggests from the armour as it splits and moves backward to meet Tony.

Drooping forward, Tony manages to mumble a quiet _Yeah_ before he slumps into the welcoming suit, as boneless and graceless as a puppet with its strings cut. The armour seals instantly, protectively, around Tony’s limp form.

Rising to its full, imposing height, Iron Man looms above the two men still kneeling on the floor. “The authorities will not be notified of this event. Should either of you attempt to act with ill intentions toward any living being, I will find you. And I will do what I should have done today. Do you understand?” The robotic voice is blank and flat, but it somehow carried a low lethal tone, cold and unyielding.

Steve knows Tony didn’t bother to program his AI with such human rage and threatening menace. It should be alarming, but Steve finds himself fascinated by the possibility of artificial intelligence being able to develop human emotions and a protective attachment to its creator.

Seemingly satisfied by the numerous frantic muted nods, Iron Man turns and rockets away. Mere seconds later, Steve's phone vibrates quietly with a call. The caller identification reads _Unknown_ but he answers it anyway; Steve could never find it in himself to decline a call when he was perfectly available to pick up.

“Captain Rogers, I apologize for any inconvenience. Please return to the Tower immediately. There is a silver Audi waiting for you at the rear of the building; Mr. Stark will be using a separate mode of transport, his personal driver will be escorting only you.”

“Understood,” Steve murmurs, and the call promptly drops. Striding confidently out of the room without a single backward glance, Steve sets a brisk pace to the back exit, mind churning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Points to anyone who can guess who Not-Thor and Not-Tony are based on (:
> 
> (Talk to me on [tumblr](https://endlessnepenthe.tumblr.com/) ! )


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